


i'll find you

by bowlingfornerds



Series: long fics [15]
Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Multiple Lives, Reincarnation, and none of them are well described, because they always come back to life, dont worry, not in an emotional way, some major character deaths in a round about way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In every life she's granted, Clarke loves Bellamy Blake's eyes.</p><p>Every time Clarke Griffin is reincarnated, she finds Bellamy Blake. They don't always fall in love, they don't always end up together, but they find each other all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll find you

**Author's Note:**

> HERE'S THE WARNING. I know it doesn't say it well in the tags, but that's irrelevant. THERE IS DEATH IN THIS FIC. MAIN CHARACTER DEATH. But, it's not well described, and it's a reincarnation AU, so you know they're always going to come back in their next lives.  
> I'm just saying that it's there, but it's not central. Don't worry - and there is no aftermath scenes from the deaths; like how they cope. Nope, those emotions are banned from this fic.
> 
> BUT ENJOY. I WORKED HARD ON THIS. I ENJOYED WRITING THIS. I HOPE YOU LIKE READING IT.

**one.**

Clarke spotted him across the village; he was unloading a cart that his horses must have pulled for miles. He didn’t look like a warrior – not like she did, with her armour and war paint. She didn’t notice that though – just that his eyes were dark. Even in the flickering light of the torches, they were darker than the night sky above them; darker that the ocean that surrounded their stretch of land. She couldn’t help herself but to approach carefully, trying to look inconspicuous.

Atom smiled at her when she drew near, calling out for her.

“Clarke! Come meet the traveller!” She straightened, walking towards him with a smile, thankful for being spotted. Up close, his skin was darker than hers and his eyes weren’t just dark but a sort of brown that could be mistaken for black. They were beautiful, alluring – she couldn’t draw her eyes away as she smiled.

“I’m surprised you made it here,” she said, in place of an introduction. “The roads aren’t safe right now.” The man nodded, as if ignoring their names was a regularity.

“Nothing’s safe right now,” he replied, his voice deep but careful. “The war will be starting soon, I’m sure – but this passage is the only way for me to return home.” Clarke nodded seriously, not sparing a glance for Atom, next to her, who was announcing that he’d find the traveller a room.

He didn’t, though.

Fire leapt over the far hills; catapulted towards the village. Clarke immediately ducked, eyes widening and pulling the stranger away from his cart. He only reached out a useless arm to grab his bag before relenting. Flames engulfed the huts; brighter than the sun, they reflected in the water, orange patterns across the waves.

Clarke and the traveller ran towards the weapons, being handed out in a hurry, but it was too late. Another round of flames flew through the air, and the traveller pushed her away. She fell to the ground, rolling across the grass as the light grew too bright. Her eyes slammed shut for only a moment, before her curiosity rose.

Clarke looked up.

The traveller was dead and the fire was still raining from the sky.

 

**four.**

Clarke only wanted to look at the gladiators. She and Octavia wandered amongst the men; her friend’s hand tugging along at her arm.

“My brother’s here, somewhere,” Octavia promised with glee in her voice. Clarke nodded with a smile.

“So you keep saying,” she replied. The two women looked around carefully. Every man was situated in their own area, along a seat. They knew the rules – they were not to approach unless asked as much by the man. Clarke didn’t know the crowd, herself, but she knew _of_ them. Her family was from nobility, and she knew that her father owned a few gladiators himself. They owned gladiators, slaves, cooks – it was their life.

It was Octavia’s life now, too, ever since Clarke and her mother had bought the girl five years before, naked as the day she was born, a chain around her throat. She’d been set free within a month – Clarke had never liked the idea of owning other people. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to buy Octavia’s brother, as he’d been forced into another group to be sold.

Only recently, as Emperor Titus announced the three hundred days of games at the colosseum, had the two girls found out that Octavia’s brother had been bought to be a gladiator. He called himself Augustus, they’d heard, and Octavia had laughed because she was named after the old Emperor’s sister by Bellamy, her brother, himself.

Now, they stared about the place – women draped themselves over men, or stood in clusters across the lawn. Clarke knew that many of them – many of the men, too – would be purchasing these men; buying them out of being gladiators, to be servants, to marry their daughters. Octavia, though – she had a ball.

The balls had fallen from the roof of the colosseum – they’d done so many times throughout the three hundred days, but this was the first prize that Octavia had won. Some of the red, wooden balls would have horrible prizes, like camel dung. But some had money, houses, _gladiators._

“There!” Octavia cried happily, pointing towards a group of women, surrounding a single man. He had darker skin than Octavia, but the same jaw line, the same hair colour. As they drew closer, Clarke noticed his eyes; beautiful, dark, familiar in a way she didn’t understand. The two moved as close as they could, and waited for Bellamy to notice them. When he did, he paused, his eyes widening a fraction as he leant forward.

“O-Octavia?” Clarke could hear him ask. Her friend’s face broke out into a grin, and the two leapt towards each other, moving into a bone crushing hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to free you,” she grinned.

“Are you free, yourself?” He asked first, hurriedly, sparing only a tiny glance for Clarke. Octavia nodded.

“I have been for years – but you, we’re here for you, big brother.” Bellamy grinned, opening his arms for another embrace.

“How?” He asked. In response, Clarke held up Octavia’s prize ball.

“She caught it,” Clarke replied, handing it over to the man. He looked at it in awe for a moment before shaking his head.

“I don’t know what I would do outside these walls,” he said lowly. “I am a gladiator, this is what I can do.” Octavia shook her head.

“In our village, you were a hunter,” she hissed in reply, and Clarke remembered once again that her best friend was not Roman, like she, but African – forced onto a slave ship and brought here.

“I was a child,” Bellamy replied. “I am an adult now – I have no training, no home outside here.”

“We can keep you,” Octavia told him. “Clarke – her family has agreed to let you stay, if you want.” Bellamy looked up to Clarke now; actually breathing her in and Clarke felt her body freeze – felt his eyes probing her skin.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Give me my freedom, O.”

 

**nine.**

Clarke turned to vomit into the grass. When she finished heaving; the bile threatening to spill over from the back of her throat, Clarke straightened.

“Here,” she looked over to the man who fed her horses at the inn. He held out a handkerchief and she took it gratefully.

“Thank you,” she replied, dabbing at her mouth. She didn’t look at the residue on the cloth, just swallowed and nodded to the man.

“Your horses are ready,” he told her, running a hand through his dark, curly hair.

“Thank you,” she repeated. They moved their separate ways; Clarke onto the front of the carriage, holding the reigns, and the man back into the inn. He stopped to watch her for a moment, before heading inside. Clarke pocketed the handkerchief, only slightly sticky with her sick, and looked towards the open road she planned to follow. She didn’t see him again.

 

**twelve.**

“Your majesty,” Bellamy bowed for Clarke, and she rolled her eyes.

“Bellamy,” she replied. “We’ve been through this. You can stop bowing now.” Bellamy smirked at her, before moving forward and catching her lips in a kiss.

“But it’s so fun,” he mused. “I’m dating the Princess-“

“ _Secretly_ dating the Princess,” she replied, shaking her head. He soured a little at her correction, but shrugged.

“You’re still mine, all the same.” Bellamy was her guard – he wasn’t supposed to be the love of her life. No – that role was reserved for Wells Jaha, heir to the throne of the neighbouring kingdom. She had been destined to marry him ever since she was born.

“And you’re mine,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for another kiss, long and languid. Bellamy directed them to the bed, her body falling back first, and his climbing on top. His fingers were deft in removing her clothes; the bodice of her dress was difficult, but he was used to untangling the ribbons while distracted by her lips.

She was mostly naked when the doors opened. The two of them froze on the bed, Bellamy’s mouth on her neck, and she turned her head slowly, towards the door. Her mother stood there in shock, eyes wide, jaw dropped. Bellamy didn’t move.

“Who… Clarke, who is that? _Clarke_!” Queen Abby’s voice was demanding, and Bellamy reluctantly turned his head so she could identify him. “Blake,” she glowered, storming forward. She pulled him away from Clarke by the scruff of his neck, before yelling: “guards!” She looked to him as the guards entered the room. “I trusted you with the protection of my daughter – how dare you defile her in this way.”

Clarke sat up, pulling her blankets around her. “Mother,” she implored. “It isn’t like that.”

“Guards, take him to the dungeon.”

“Mother!”

“Your highness,” Bellamy started, swallowing as the men moved forward, grabbing his arms. “Please-“

“Enough,” she told him.

“Mother, _stop_!” Clarke’s eyes pricked with tears as Bellamy was dragged away from her, struggling against the men he worked with. “Stop, I love him!” Bellamy’s eyes widened.

“Clarke!”

“You will _not_ love that man,” Abby ordered, glaring at her daughter. “You are to be married to Wells in less than a week.”

“Clarke, I love you!” Bellamy’s voice could be heard in the hallway, and the princess let the tears escape from her eyes.

“I will not marry Wells,” she told her mother, spite on her tongue.

“You will do as I say,” the Queen replied. “It is for the good of your kingdom. And that man is to be sentenced to death for putting the kingdom’s alliance at stake.”

“Mother!”

“Enough, Clarke!”

Clarke knew that Bellamy’s hanging had drawn a crowd. But she refused to be a part of it.

 

**fourteen.**

Clarke coughed up blood and the little girl across the room would have recoiled if she could. She was too weak for that, too. Ten of them lived in this room and Clarke forced herself upright, against the wall once more. Her arm was pressed against Bellamy’s – they didn’t get along for the first few weeks of living together, but they realised they would have to.

“How was work,” she croaked out slowly.

“It was,” he replied was a sigh. They hadn’t eaten in three days. After a minute of silence, he spoke once more. “One of the kids got their arms caught in the machinery,” he whispered. Clarke clenched her teeth, looking at the little girl – Charlotte – across the room. She worked with the machinery, too – it was the only way they could afford to survive.

“What happened?” Clarke asked, even though she knew the answer. Only a few years ago, she was small enough to work in the factories, too – but they fired her when she grew. Working in the infirmary was doing very little when they didn’t have enough money to pay her, and it was ironic that she was the most ill out of everyone in their room of the house.

“She was sent out,” Bellamy replied. “When do you think this is going to end?” Clarke sighed – it sounded too loud in the quiet of the room.

“I don’t think it will,” she told him. “I think this is our life now.” They may not have been great friends, but she let him intertwine their fingers anyway. After twenty minutes or so, she groaned.

“I need the bathroom,” she complained.

“Can you make it?” He asked. She paused, trying to stand, but feeling as if her limbs were about to give out underneath her. Clarke shook her head, and Bellamy just nodded, stiff-faced. He stood first, and helped her up.

“We’re heading to the toilets,” he announced to the room. There was a little boy, Reuben, that lived with them, and he came along, too, walking just ahead of them as they limped slowly down the street. Every road had a single water pump, and a toilet – their toilets were placed over the river, so the faeces would be washed away in the water. Clarke gave Bellamy a grateful look when they arrived and he nodded tightly.

“I don’t want this to be our lives, anymore,” he said quietly, as she shut the toilet door behind her. Clarke didn’t, either.

 

**twenty six.**

Clarke tightened the grasp her fingers had in Bellamy’s hair, her mouth desperately pressed and his. She covered a sob with his lips, pushing her body closer as his arms wrapped around her tightly.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she said into his mouth.

“I love you so much,” he replied, nodding, gently biting down on her lower lip. The horn of the jeep honked, and the two broke apart – Clarke’s face damp with tears, and Bellamy’s stiff with the refusal to cry in front of her. “I’ll be back soon, I promise,” he told her. She nodded hurriedly.

“I know you will. Go win this war, Bell.” He smiled sadly at her, hair cut short and his uniform perfect. Bellamy picked up his duffle bag and jogged out to the jeep, throwing in the bag before climbing in, himself.

“I love you!” Clarke called out to him again, waving. Bellamy waved, back.

“I love you, too!” He raised a hand in goodbye, and the jeep took off down the road. Clarke stood on the doorstep to their house, her hand clenched around the locket that he’d given her many years beforehand, at the hollow of her throat, long after the car had disappeared.

 

**twenty seven.**

“There’s another war,” Bellamy huffed, falling onto the sofa besides Clarke. They had only been dating a month. “I’m going to get drafted, you know it.”

“I know nothing,” Clarke replied defiantly. “You’re not going to get drafted.”

“Yes I will,” he told her. “That’s how this works – I’m in the age bracket, I’m young, I’m healthy.”

“We’ll invent an illness,” she announced. Bellamy chuckled but shook his head, lacing his fingers with hers.

“I’m going to go off to war, you know it as well as I do.” She nodded slowly.

“I’ll go with you.”

“They need the women in the factories.”

“I can fight.”

“I know you can,” he replied. “But they want the women in the factories and the men on the front line.” Clarke paused for a moment, thoughtful.

“I’ll send you naughty pictures for you to look at when you’re out there?”

 

**twenty eight.**

Clarke was two and a half. The war raged on around her. She didn’t know it at the time. She was given a box, a name tag – they were at a train station, filled with people, with strangers.

“Get on the train, honey,” her mother told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Someone will get you when you get off. I love you.” Clarke burst into tears as her mother hugged her, before she toddled off as she was told. A man in a uniform helped her find a seat – she was supposed to be too young for this. Her mother couldn’t have her in the city anymore, though – not when the house next door to them had been hit only two nights beforehand.

Clarke sat, crying, in the train carriage – loud and piercing. The other children avoided her, moving further down to separate seats.

Just as the train was about to take off, a boy and a girl rushed in – the girl first and the boy pushing her along. Clarke was still whimpering as they collapsed into the seat opposite. Unlike the other children, they didn’t bother looking out the window to their mothers. Clarke didn’t either. She didn’t know any better.

The girl looked about her age, and boy was older, around seven or eight, with dark hair and darker eyes that Clarke knew instinctively.

“Who are you?” The girl asked, wide eyes and innocence in her voice. Clarke didn’t reply, just started crying all over again – the noise of the train hurting her ears and the strangers’ staring at her like she was the freak. The boy moved over to her though, and sat down by her side. He pulled her into a hug; his arm close around her.

“My name’s Bellamy,” he said quietly. “That’s my sister Octavia. What’s your name?” When Clarke didn’t respond, he just looked to her name tag. “Clarke. That’s a pretty name.”

She was to get off the train at the same station as them, according to the tag that Bellamy read for her. They stood in a line, each of the girls with a hand enveloped in his. Octavia sucked the thumb of her free hand. Clarke held in her tears. A woman looked along the line of the twenty-or-so children, choosing who she wanted to take home with her.

“You come as a group, huh?” She asked Bellamy, nodding to the girls.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely. She nodded, more to herself than to him.

“Well, all right – all three of you, come along now.”

 

**thirty three.**

Jasper and Monty were high. Clarke was high. The music pounded around her; massive speakers with beautiful sounds she couldn’t comprehend anymore. She remembered a time when none of them would get high at festivals, but suddenly, with all the colours and flowers, it was their thing. This is what they did.

Monty said it was because the police and TV had said that it was their thing. None of them had heard of it being their thing, but getting high – that was their thing now.

She had a daisy chain in her hair; white flowers against the golden locks. Her arms stretched out around her – Jasper passed a joint and she took a drag before holding it out for Monty. Clarke let the smoke blow out from her mouth and grinned into the air; into the music that wrapped around her – a hug of beautiful sounds.

Next to her, a girl moved up. “Can I have some?” She asked Monty, nodding to the spliff. “I can share this?” She held up a bottle and Clarke grinned.

“Sharing is caring,” Clarke happily agreed, taking the bottle from the girl and taking a swig. It burnt down her throat but it tasted like sugar. Monty handed over the joint and the girl smiled. She was beautiful, Clarke could see. Long legs, long hair, a jaw that could cut glass.

“Bell!” She called out, over her shoulder. Clarke didn’t know what she meant but she didn’t care. A moment later, a man walked up behind her, smiling.

“O,” he said. She held out the spliff for him and took the bottle he was holding, passing it along to Jasper.

“From us,” she smiled. None of them minded that they were shouting over the music; near by a man was naked and a child rolled in the mud. She looked to the man and Clarke almost stopped dancing so she could spend more time staring. He must have felt the same as he blew out the smoke, eyes catching onto hers.

The man moved towards her, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Your eyes,” Clarke said, her voice too quiet with the music playing over it. The man heard her perfectly though. “They’re so beautiful.”

“So are yours,” he replied. Clarke took the joint from his hand and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out after a moment. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, though.

Clarke loved his eyes.

 

**forty one.**

Clarke groaned into Murphy’s shoulder.

“This is your fault.”

“How is it my fault?”

“You’re my best friend,” she replied. “You’re supposed to keep me from getting pregnant at seventeen.” Murphy sighed, running a calloused hand through her hair.

“I think that’s your own job, really,” he replied. “I thought my job was to keep you alive.”

“Well you’ve failed that, too,” she told him.

“How so?”

“My mum’s going to kill me.” Murphy laughed but Clarke’s glare cut at it. He sighed, rubbing her arm affectionately.

“It’s going to be all right, Clarky,” he promised. “Why don’t we start by telling the father and not Abby?” Clarke wrinkled up her nose. “What? What is it?”

“The father,” she complained, burying her head into Murphy’s shoulder so she couldn’t see his expression any more. He smelt like cigarette smoke and whiskey.

“Who is it?” He asked. She mumbled the name into his shoulder, before he nudged her. “Come on, Clarky – tell me.”

“Bellamy Blake,” she repeated, loudly this time. Murphy’s laugh was sudden and surprised. “Stop it!” She pushed him away. He shook his head.

“Sorry, sorry – but _Bellamy?_ You hate him!”

“I know – and I hate him even more for this.” She pointed at her stomach.

“At least it wasn’t an STD, right?” Clarke rolled her eyes, and let Murphy wrap his arm around her shoulder again. “It’s going to be fine – he’s a good guy, really. I mean, I _know_ you don’t think so – but he is. And he’s a family man, too. He looks after his little sister all the time – I’m sure you guys will be fine.”

 

**forty four.**

Clarke kissed a boy at a party. His eyes were dark and never ending; pools of brown that was almost black. She loved his eyes. She kissed him again. They fucked in the backseat of his car. She climbed out, even though she didn’t want to, and he said goodbye.

They exchanged phone numbers.

She regretted leaving the car, though; not asking for a lift home. As she walked down the road, heels swinging between her fingers, humming happily to herself, a car sped towards her. Blood splattered across the pavement, her head hit the ground.

There was a crunch.

Her phone, lying a few metres away, started to ring as the drunk driver climbed out of his car, screaming. On the phone screen, the name read Bellamy, and he left a voicemail.

_Hey, I know it’s only been like, half an hour? But, I uh, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Call me back when you get this, okay?_

 

**forty five.**

A baby was born. She couldn’t breathe. She’s placed in an incubator and her eyes were rarely open. When they were, they’d lock onto the five year old boy standing at the incubator next to hers, watching the tiny baby that was his sister, struggle to breathe. He met her eyes a few times while his sister and her parents were sleeping.

“Hey, baby,” he cooed gently, smiling at her with her eyes wide open. She couldn’t breathe properly but she also couldn’t cry out. “What’s your name?” He looked at her chart. “Hi, Clarke. I’m Bellamy – that’s my sister, over there. Her name is Octavia. You’re going to be okay, I know you are. Octavia will be, too.”

 

**forty six.**

They were toddlers in a cancer ward. Clarke’s head was covered in a bandana – she hated that the blonde that used to hang that was gone. Bellamy couldn’t move from his bed. She woke up every day to him sitting in the bed opposite, agitated and crying.

Then, one day, she didn’t.

 

**forty seven.**

Clarke crashed into a boy in the crowd as she pushed her way to the front, trying to get closer to the stage.

“Sorry,” she called back, trying to follow Harper more closely.

“No you’re not,” the voice replied. Clarke laughed loudly, only glancing around for a second to look at the amused expression of the boy – only a little older than her with dark eyes. She grinned.

“You’re right, I’m not.”

 

**forty eight.**

Clarke’s father was dead. Her mother had been arrested. She sat in the waiting room of social services, looking at the siblings opposite. The little girl was asleep on her brother’s shoulders, and his face was dark and troubled.

“Why are you here?” She asked quietly, without a filter. He looked up sharply.

“My mother’s dead,” he snapped.

“What about your dad?”

“Long gone.” They lapsed into silence.

“My dad’s dead, too,” Clarke said at last.

“What about your mum?” The boy sneered, mockingly. Clarke sighed. She liked the boy’s eyes but she didn’t like _him_ very much.

“She was arrested for his murder,” she replied.

 

**forty nine.**

Clarke was born a boy was tufts of white hair. Bellamy was the girl in his class with beautiful dark eyes, and long curly hair. He pushed Bellamy in the playground on their first day of school.

“It’s because he likes you,” Fox told Bellamy, loudly as she dried her new friend’s tears. Clarke scoffed. _No, no it wasn’t._

“Actually,” he corrected. “It’s because I don’t.”

 

**fifty.**

Clarke opened her door, annoyed by the drunken banging at three AM.

“What?” She snapped. In front of her was a stranger. He had curly dark hair and olive skin, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks that she itched to paint. He stared at her for a moment.

“You’re not Octavia,” he announced, confused. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“She’s 22 _4_ not 22 _3_.” She nudged him to look at the door opposite hers. “That’s Octavia’s room.” The man nodded, looking back at her and smiling. She didn’t want to admit that she liked his smile. He was interrupting her sleep.

“I’m Bellamy,” he grinned crookedly, stumbling towards Octavia’s room.

“Clarke,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Pleased to meet you.” Bellamy banged on the other girl’s door without tearing his eyes away from Clarke.

“Charmed,” she drawled.

 

**seventy one.**

“It’s fucking world war three,” Bellamy groused, snapping the magazine into his pistol. “We’ve got to be prepared.”

“We were already prepared,” Clarke replied calmly, slamming the door shut of the truck. She pulled on her seat belt – safety first – and started the ignition.

“We weren’t prepared for a war, Clarke.”

“But we were prepared for _something_ ,” she replied. “Think of it as a blessing.” He snorted and Clarke rolled her eyes. “Seriously! They’re not going to be looking for _the next Bonnie and Clyde_ in a war! We’ve got the advantage here – we can finally find a place to settle down.” Bellamy sighed, next to her.

“I know that’s still your dream,” he said lowly, his hand slipping over hers from where she held the wheel. “But we can’t settle down and you know it.”

“We can and will,” Clarke insisted.

“We’ll be sitting ducks.”

“At least we’ll be together.”

 

**seventy four.**

“This has been going on for years,” Clarke told him, glaring. “What makes you think that this new tactic will end it?” Captain Blake huffed.

“Well, Griffin – it’s something we haven’t tried yet.”

“It’s idiotic.”

“It could save our asses.”

“Why not just nuke the place?” She glared.

“Because it’s already been nuked! Face it, Griffin – this is our last hope!”

“Mount Weather was not made for these reasons.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Mount Weather is going to be used for them. Get President Wallace, tell him we’re ending this war _now_.”

“Fifty years isn’t just going to go away with a bunker and a few politicians disappearing.”

“It’s going to have to.”

 

**seventy seven.**

Clarke picked up the tin can by her feet. “Still full,” she murmured to herself. Monroe and Miller were further behind, guns loaded, taking as quiet steps as her. She looked to the backpack on the ground, still unzipped. “Someone’s been here recently,” she told them. “Their stuff’s still here.”

“Let’s find them and get out,” Miller told her.

“Yeah, come on – we haven’t got all day.” The area outside the Costco was a wasteland. Everything had been since the detonations. It was like the world imploded; a bright light and a flash. Clarke was glad that she hadn’t been alive at the time – but she didn’t understand why she had to grow up into this world. None of them did, really.

They ventured further into the store before she saw the doll; it was dirty and old, but still put together, sewn deftly with stuffing puffing out of the edges. Clarke knelt down and picked it up.

“Nanna had one of these,” she told her friends, showing them the child’s toy. Miller snorted.

“Yeah, glued to her fucking shoulder.” The three of them grinned, remembering the lives of the pre-bombers. When the bombs detonated, many survived, fusing with items they were holding. Her grandmother’s shoulder was fused; skin growing around an old doll that she had been sleeping with at the time. One of her friends had a bird in his back, and another had a fan in her arm.

There was a sound – like a hushing, and the three straightened, on alert. She nodded towards the back door, where the noise seemed to come from and the three spread out, covering the escape routes.

Clarke pointed her gun in front of her as she went, before stopping entirely. She held up a hand for her friends, and they froze.

In front of her, were the legs of a small child, trying to pull them closer to their chest. She sighed.

“Hey, hey kiddo, you can come out? We’re not going to hurt you.” The kid didn’t move besides their shaking. She knelt down, moving closer. “Come on – my name’s Clarke, we can take you back to camp with us, you’ll be safe there.” She rounded the corner of the box the child was behind, to find a small girl, curled up in a ball. Clarke reached out her hand, slowly, gently, but stopped when she heard it.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” Behind her was a man. His hair was short and dark and his eyes were almost black. He pointed a gun at Clarke and she sighed.

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone scouting,” she groused, looking towards her friends. The man seemed to notice them, too, and the guns pointed at him. Clarke rose to her feet. “Either you give us your names or we give you bullets in the brain – your choice.” The man’s jaw tightened, glaring, as he lowered his gun.

“Bellamy Blake,” he replied, gritted teeth. She nodded to the girl. “Octavia, my sister.” Clarke smiled pleasantly.

“Clarke Griffin. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

 

**eighty.**

Clarke woke up staring out into space. She hated space.

“Bellamy’s here,” her mother called. Clarke groaned. She hated space. She hated Bellamy Blake more.

 

**eighty nine.**

She was born on the ground, and told stories about how her ancestors lived in the sky.

“I want to go to the sky,” she whispered to Bellamy, one evening, as they star gazed, their hands linked and their backs against the grass.

“We’ll go one day,” he promised. “But they said it wasn’t that great – they ran out of air.”

“No, they said they were _running_ out of air. I’m sure that could be fixed – what if someone was still up there, living by themselves.”

“They would have died a long time ago,” Bellamy sighed. She glanced over to him; the stars were reflected in his eyes and she couldn’t contain her love of them, her love of _him_.

“We should go back there one day,” she told him instead of speaking her mind – they hadn’t been together long enough for that. “We should go to the stars and live in space, like they used to. We could see the Earth from above, and we wouldn’t have to be near the war.”

“There’s a war wherever you go,” he whispered in return.

“Not in space,” she replied.

“The stars are always fighting themselves,” he shrugged. “Whatever they’re made of, it’s like an explosion. Those stars are really far away and they’re killing themselves – they’re their own enemies.”

“That’s silly,” Clarke murmured, but it wasn’t, really.

“No, it’s not,” Bellamy continued. “They’re destroying themselves, in battles against their own beings. The sun is a star that is close to us, and one day its explosion will destroy the planet.” Clarke was silent then.

“The stars are fighting themselves?”

“Everything is at battle with itself, really,” he agreed.

 

**ninety six.**

Bellamy held a cup up to Clarke, containing a sickly alcohol that would taste like paint stripper. Clarke held hers up, too, knowing the end was near. Their wars were always going to destroy them – she never wanted to be the cause though.

“To us,” Bellamy said lowly, staring into her eyes. She couldn’t look away as she tapped her glass against his. The sound was like metal on metal; the way it sounded when the door to their bunker was being banged on. They were refugees, criminals – Clarke swallowed, hearing the shouts from outside the doors.

“To us,” she repeated. They downed their cups, heads immediately swimming. She glanced over to the bottles they had poured, to the pills they had added, fizzing in the liquid. She gagged but refused to throw up the poison. Bellamy held his down too, taking his hand in hers and gripping tightly.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she promised. They fell back against the old, musty bed, shutting their eyes and waiting for death to take them.

 

**one hundred.**

“In different cultures,” Bellamy read from a book, eyes squinting at the pages in the dim light. “There are different beliefs about the afterlife. In the Christian culture, it is believed that if you have repented for your sins, you may enter the kingdom of heaven. However, in other major religions, such as Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism and Sikhism, all of which arose in India, it is believed that after death, people will be reincarnated. Some also believe that your reincarnation is dependent on how you acted in your current life.” He looked up from the book, to Clarke, sitting at the end of the bed.

“Didn’t the Greeks believe that, too?” She asked. Bellamy nodded, and she found herself unable to look away. He loved history, she knew – he was always so passionate about it.

“They believed in Elysium,” he agreed. “If a person died a hero, they could try for rebirth. If they succeeded in reaching Elysium three times, they would be able to go to the Isle of The Blest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s basically a massive party,” he replied. Clarke cracked a smile and he nodded, shutting the book in his lap.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” She asked, moving up the bed to sit next to him. Bellamy shrugged, his eyes darting about his metal compartment. They were building a new world outside the walls, and although it wasn’t luxury, it would be enough until the homes were rebuilt based on old designs and images, scavenged from the bunkers of the past.

“I don’t know,” Bellamy glanced at her, before looking away. “Maybe. It would be nice to think that we could be born again someday – try all of this over.”

“I think it would be exhausting,” Clarke replied after a beat. Bellamy raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips. She nodded. “I think having to keep living, over and over, breaks between lives or not, would just be difficult. It would be as if we would just have to keep going – being different people or not, but not remembering our last lives.”

“Do you think you _would_ remember your last life?” He asked quietly.

“Possibly,” she whispered back. “I’d like to think that if it were possible, people would just find the souls that they’d been spending eternity with.” Outside Bellamy’s compartment, she could hear Octavia – his sister, squealing with her friends. She wondered absently if this was his first life, and if Octavia was his sister before or not.

“Do you think your soul would be brought back to mine, hypothetically speaking?” She caught his eyes – his dark, beautiful eyes – darting down to her lips, and smiled.

“I think so,” she agreed. “Personally, if it were up to me, I would meet you in every life I’m blessed with.” He raised his eyebrows, and she notices that they’re drawing closer, that the candles are slowly dying.

“I would find you, too,” he agreed. “And if I met you in every life, I’d like to think that I would remember your hair.”

“My hair?” Her voice was quiet, lips almost touching his.

“It’s like a halo,” he replied. “When I first saw you, I noticed your hair.” She nodded, their lips brushing. Clarke shivered.

“If I met you, life after life, I know that I’d remember your eyes.” She didn’t see his eyebrows quirk up, or anything else after her eyes shut. Their lips pressed against one another, and his hands skated up her arms, cupping her face, fingers carding through her hair. She smiled into his mouth, the sounds of the new world far away, the worries of their lives forgotten.

“My eyes,” he questioned between kisses.

“I really love your eyes,” she told him, pushing forward and shutting him up with her mouth. Clarke knew, if reincarnation was real, that she would be drawn to his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> AYE THANKS FOR READING  
> Please remember the dynamic duo - kudos and comments (you can do both without an account, what a wonderful world this is) PLEASE TELL ME YOUR FEELINGS ABOUT THIS FIC I WANT TO KNOW THEM  
> I know there's loose threads all over the place, like, how comes in every life they have the same name and Octavia is always his sister and where is Raven why did I forget to add her even though I was planning on adding her in the hours that I wrote this fic for? I get it, I get it, let. me. live.
> 
> AND NOW FOR THE FYI BIT about where I got my inspiration for each scene in case you'd like to know.  
> 1 was entirely inspired by the viking era and How To Train Your Dragon even though the scene has little to do with that book and film series at all.  
> 2 was literally me rewriting a scene from Roman Mysteries, but with a happier ending.  
> 14 is based in the industrialisation period in Britain, which I learnt about a few years ago. Specifically, that the toilets were at the end of the road, the shared water systems was causing small pox or something and that up to ten people would live in a single room of a house. Reuben is the name of one of my supposed ancestors who was living in one of those houses at the time, which I found out on a family tree website.  
> 26 is world war 1, 27 and 28 are world war 2. Both in Britain.  
> 33 is based on the 60's and the Notting Hill hippies, in that hippies weren't actually massive smokers and drug-users until the media and police started reporting that they were. Because of this, they had a self-fulfilling prophecy, in that, because they were told that they were drug users, they became them.  
> 77, the idea about the fusions with objects people were holding during the bombs came from a book called Pure.
> 
> Way too much information for you guys. I really don't care though. I found it interesting.


End file.
